


Where the Sky is Lead, and the Earth is Stone

by blue_spectacles



Category: Into the Woods - Sondheim/Lapine, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Crossover, Happy Ending, M/M, Redemption, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-09
Updated: 2016-10-09
Packaged: 2018-08-20 10:51:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8246293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blue_spectacles/pseuds/blue_spectacles
Summary: Prince Charming vows not to return to the castle until he’s become a man worthy of inheriting the throne. While helping the villagers rebuild, he meets a grouchy healer and decides this should be the man to teach him how to be good.





	1. Is he charming? (They say that he’s charming.)

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so I just rewatched the movie version of “Into the Woods” with Chris Pine as Prince Charming and I cannot get the image of Prince!Kirk out of my head. 
> 
> This is a crossover set after the film ends, so, big SPOILERS for “Into the Woods.”
> 
> If you are, by chance, reading my other ongoing Kirk/McCoy fic, "Brimful o' Stars," I promise I am still continuing that - but inspiration for this just grabbed me and wouldn't let go.

_“If this is how you act as a prince, what kind of king will you be?”_

Her words cut because they were true. She was right, she was better than him. _The princess who ran away_. The princess who danced with him for three nights, who looked into his soul and found him wanting.

He hadn’t been lying when he said he would always love the princess who ran away, the mystery girl, the mirage, the dream in gold slippers who was so unlike the other girls at the festival. Not fawning over him. No throwing herself at him. Sure, she _danced_ with him, when he asked her, but then she ran.

She came back, but she never stayed.

She didn’t really want to be his wife.

_“My father’s house was a nightmare. Yours was a dream. Now I want something in between.”_

She was more honest, in the end, then anyone he’d ever known.

And he didn’t deserve her. He knew that. He knew that while he was kissing the baker’s wife, in the woods. He knew that even though he was clever, well-mannered, passionate, handsome and charming he wasn’t really a very _nice_ prince.

Or maybe he was nice, but he wasn’t _good_.

_Things happen in the woods_ , he had told himself at the time. Besides, he was _a prince_. He was raised to be charming, not sincere. He was supposed to kiss a lot of girls and slay monsters (though he hadn’t done that either, had he? He’d run away from the monster just as he’d run away from his bride.)

He hadn’t run back to the castle, though.

As dawn broke – seen vaguely as a dim smattering of light beyond the leaves – he was still riding his charger through the transformed forest. The trails didn’t lead where they might – where they once had. Something beyond the earthquake – the giant’s fall – had warped them.

Magic had disrupted all their lives and rewrote their stories. The paths his horse followed, picking his way hesitantly on prancing hooves, did not lead home, but the prince found he didn’t care.

He didn’t want to return to the palace without his bride, or the giant’s head. Didn’t want to answer his brother’s inevitable questions, didn’t want his father to throw another three-day festival to find Cinderella’s replacement. Someone else for him to betray, because as much as he’d been intrigued by his fleeing lady, as much as he’d loved chasing the magic, flickering beauty of her - _like chasing a unicorn through the glade, or a golden hind through a thicket_ – when he caught her she wasn’t really what he wanted, after all.

_But why not?_ It made the prince angry at himself. Then he’d tried kissing the baker’s wife, and she was sweet as the confections they sold, and beautiful too, but still not someone he would have been faithful to, if given the chance. He knew that now. He hadn’t before.

He’d always assumed he would find the perfect bride and would somehow be fixed, stop wanting…things. The familiar vague, undefined restless feeling came back to him and he urged his horse onwards.

His almost-bride had been right; he would not make a good king the way he was now. He could not return until he was the sort of man who would make a good ruler – someone brave enough to slay a giant and true enough to know his own heart first.

_But maybe he would never be that person,_ that was the fear that roiled in the prince’s heart, like a black cloud. Maybe he was now all he would ever be – handsome but craven, charming but faithless.

When he and his brother had spoken of agony, he hadn’t ever imagined _this_.

As the sun rose in the morning sky, his horse came to the edge of the wood. The prince found himself by the village, which had been decimated by the giant’s attack. Houses were crushed and fires had broken out and then died, leaving smouldering ruins behind.

Townsfolk wandered through the dusk with dazed, hopeless expressions, soot-streaked faces and hands bloody from trying to dig loved ones from the debris. Children who had cheered and thrown flowers as he rode in the carriage with his almost-wife only a day before, now sat in the black mud, weeping.

His stomach felt heavy as lead. He had told them it was just an earthquake. He had promised them everything would be fine.

He was _the prince_ , that meant what he said was supposed to be true.

_No, not true,_ he thought bitterly, _just charming._

Guilt coiled around the prince’s neck like a noose. He had the urge to snatch up his stallion’s reins and turn him back to the woods. To anonymity and chance encounters. “No,” the prince told himself sternly, “no more.”

He forced himself to drop the reins and lean forwards, sliding out of the saddle. His boots splashed in the mud and the smell of smoke filled his nose. He patted his horse’s neck for a moment, under the pretense of soothing him (it was his own thundering heart the prince was trying to settle.)  

_Alright, you can do this,_ he told himself.

He took a deep breath, rolled his shoulders and released his horse. Across what was left of the street, sat two children. The older one, a boy of about eight, was weeping openly, with ragged, hitching sobs, while the younger, a solemn faced infant of about three merely stared grimly ahead.

Immediately the prince froze. His winning smile would be inappropriate and callous. This wasn’t the sort of situation where his charm would do much good, was it?

Behind him, his horse snorted, pawing the ground and shaking his long neck as though to say _“well, get on with it!”_ The beast even nudged him roughly with his head, forcing the prince to stumble his first few steps. He quickly regained his balance, and strode across the street, to the children.

Kneeling on the ground beside them, he cleared his throat. “Hello. Hello there, children. Can I be . . . be of assistance to you?”

The three-year old girl had pointy features and jet-black hair. She looked at him as coldly as a three-year-old could manage. “Can you find our mommy and daddy? Because if you can’t, then, no.”

“Well . . .” he swallowed. “Perhaps I can help you find them.”

_This would have been so much easier_ , he thought, _if his steward were there._ He could have simply _ordered_ the man to find the children’s missing parents . . . But what if they couldn’t be found? What if they had been crushed by the giant’s rampage?

“They’re gone . . . they’re gone . . . they’re dead, aren’t they?” the boy gulped, as though reading the prince’s thoughts.

The prince did the only thing he could think of, he leaned forwards, gathering the boy in a hug. After a moment’s consideration, his little sister joined them. _These are your subjects,_ the prince thought, _you have a duty to help them._

He stood up, lifting the girl in his arms and leading the boy by the hand. “Where is your house?” he asked, as they walked through the ruins of the village square. They passed the bakery (a flash of guilt, he hoped the baker and his wife were well) and the house of the local witch, her garden shredded and trampled to ruin.

Finally, the boy stopped, gripping the prince’s hand tighter. They stood in front of what had clearly once been a large, long house – the sort that would have been home to many families - now flattened, its walls splintered, exploded, mixed with thatch from the roof, burned black in places where it had probably been ground against the fire pit. The prince felt sick, but forced himself not to react, for the sake of the children.

He was relieved to see there were already some men and women waist-deep in the debris, looking for survivors. Perhaps that meant some had lived through the ordeal.

A few paces away, the wounded were lain out on benches and animal-skins. The prince felt himself pale at the sight of wounds that bled through their wrappings. He found himself gripping the children tighter as a man screamed in agony. Someone – the village healer, the prince guessed – was resetting a broken leg.

After a few minutes, the healer stood, turning towards them. He wasn’t what the prince had been expecting – he was tall, even a little taller than the prince, broader of shoulder, as well, and not much older. He was handsome, though clearly exhausted, with heavy bags under bloodshot eyes and hands covered in blood from the wounds he’d been tending. His chin bore scruffy dark stubble and his dark hair was a mess.

The man scowled openly when he saw the prince, “oh, if it isn’t Prince _Charming_ ,” he said, spitting out the popular nickname like it was an insult. “I don’t have time for babysittin’ royalty. I’m sure the people have seen you, your highness, so why don’t you hightail it back up to your castle and let us do the work of puttin’ this damn kingdom back together.”

The prince blinked. He wasn’t used to being spoken to in such a rough manner – most people got nervous and bowed a lot around him – so he was momentarily taken aback. But the boy started crying again, and the even the little girl, stoic as she was, tightened her arms around his neck.

“You’re the local _sawbones_ , aren’t you?” he asked, in a voice used to issuing royal commands. The man merely snorted, rubbing tiredly at his eyes. “I’m just trying to find the parents of these two children,” he said, more quietly. “Have you tended them, sawbones?”

The man finally gave him a second glance, a guilty look passing his face at the sight of the children, whom he’d apparently missed before. He did look _very_ tired. “My God, I’m sorry, kids . . . I’ve been working all night since that damn giant . . .”

He walked closer, and took the little girl from the prince’s arms. She went to him willingly, apparently knowing the man. Even the boy ran forwards, throwing his arms around the healer’s waist. So the healer wasn’t so grouchy with everyone, just him.

“I haven’t seen their folks,” a dark look crossed the healer’s face and his eyes flickered to the prince’s, before travelling silently to the wreckage beyond. The prince swallowed. So they were in the rubble, then. Probably dead. _Probably._ He shook his head, shrugging off his heavy jacket, with its gold tassels and jeweled buttons. He draped it over the little boy’s shoulders instead, rolling up the sleeves of his silk shirt.

“And what exactly do you think you’re doing, kid?”  

“I’m going to help find their parents,” he answered.

The man reached out, gripping his arm. The prince frowned at him. People didn’t usually touch him. Actually, that was untrue – they _never_ touched him. He was the _prince_. “Release me, sawbones.”

“This isn’t a game, damn it,” he snarled, and the prince had the notion that if his arms hadn’t been full of children he would be shaking him. “You’re not cut out for this – go back to your damn castle and get out of the way!”

The prince yanked himself from the man’s grip. “You think those people over there couldn’t use another set of hands? Have they been working all night, like you?”

 “Yeah, they have. But that’s exactly why they don’t need some pretty little prince getting in the way, distracting them, crying over ever splinter he gets.”

The prince drew himself up. He wasn’t like that ( _alright, maybe he was a little like that_ ) but – “just watch the children, Bones.”

The healer gave him the dirtiest of looks, but he was at least holding the children close.

The prince turned away without waiting to hear whatever other insults the man had in store for him.

He had been coddled his entire life, the prince realized, as he waded into the wreckage of the townhouse and began trying to shift the rubble. It was heavy, and trying to find pieces that could be pried loose was difficult. He helped an old man haul up the corner of a wall, and the sharp edge of a brick bit into his palm, slicing it. He bit his lip, resolutely ignoring the pain. For the first time in his life, he didn’t have his steward, or his royal guards, or even his brother to help him.

The men and women who were already working, regarded him wearily, a flicker of the eyes, a tightening around the corners of the mouths – distrust, then, like the healer - nothing more. Nothing said outright. But the prince worked hard and didn’t quit.

The sun rose higher in the sky and sweat soaked his back and neck and under his arms, running into his eyes. His hands were cut several more times, until the blood made his fingers slippery, but he ignored it. A piece of wall came loose as he was hauling it and slammed into his knee, bruising it badly, but he swallowed his cries and continued the work.

He worked with the villagers all day, and out of the corner of his eye he saw the healer doing the same.

It took hours, but they finally uncovered two trapped survivors, who had been pinned beneath a large section of wall, thankfully supported by a fraction of remaining chimney stone. They were both slender and graceful, even in being pulled from the wreckage that had once been their home. The woman’s long black hair was coated in dust.

“The children, my love, the children –” she muttered, as her husband followed her, pale and stumbling.

“Your kids are fine. They’re safe,” the prince assured her. Relief washed over her, softening her fine features, lighting up her dark brown eyes.

If they recognized him as the prince of the realm, they did not say and he found he didn’t actually mind. They clasped his arms and hugged him tightly, as they did the other villagers, before laughing and crying as they staggered over to the healer, who ran across the way to meet them, and their children, who were at his heels.

The prince felt something loosen and unwind in his chest. He staggered, the exhaustion of the day hitting him like a sudden wave.

The other men and women now clapped him on the back as well, and he could see they were smiling tiredly beneath the dirt and sweat that stained their faces.

He made his way (limping slightly from the pain in his bruised knee) back to the healer to see how the young family was making out. He felt protective of them, now.

The mother sat with her daughter on her lap, her long hair falling elegantly behind her. The father stood tall and proper, even after his ordeal, looking a bit more regal than the prince at the moment. He held his son next to him soothingly, while he spoke to the healer in a low voice.

The sawbones’ gaze shifted to the prince as he shuffled forwards and he saw that familiar scowl. The prince tried to catch his breath. “Seriously? What’s that look for now, Bones?”

Then he promptly pitched over.

 

*          *          *          *          *

           

The next thing he knew, the prince came to blinking up at a dark, unfamiliar thatch ceiling. The walls were cool, chipped stone and it was late – crickets chirped through the unshuttered windows, and he heard a fire spitting in the hearth.

He was lying on a small bed, the blanket was rougher than anything he was used to and the mattress beneath him felt stuffed with hay. He was in a peasant cottage?

He sat up, and realized his cut hands had been washed and bandaged with some sort of salve that numbed the pain.

“Oh, so you’re awake.”

The prince stared in surprise at the village healer, who sat in a wooden chair next to him. “Don’t look so surprised – you think I want some blowhard knight throwin’ me in the stocks on charges of leaving _Prince Charming_ out in the dirt?”

He winced. “Ah. Still. Thanks for this,” he nodded to his hands.

The healer rolled his eyes. “It’s what I do.” He paused, seemed to be thinking over his next words, and sighed. “You did good today, kid.”

_Kid._ He shook his head. No one spoke to him in such a manner. At the palace it was all your highness this, my lord that, bow, bow, curtsey, grovel. Smiles were often false, simpering masks. If the healer didn’t smile at him, at least his glares seemed genuine.

An iron pot bubbled over the fire. The prince’s stomach growled at the smell and he felt himself blush, but the healer only rolled his eyes.

“Well, fine then, I guess the hospitable thing to do would be to feed you.”

“You have my thanks,” the prince said, accepting the wooden bowl that was passed to him.

The man raised an eyebrow at him, ladling steaming gruel into each of their bowls. “Come on now, you can’t always talk like that.”

“I am a prince.”

The other man snorted. “You don’t look so much like one, at the moment,” he said.

The prince looked down at his torn, dirtied clothes, bandaged hands and bare feet. He started laughing despite himself, almost spilling the stew.

“Watch it,” his host warned.

“Sorry,” he shook his head helplessly. “You’re right. I’m not . . . I think I’m just . . . just _James_ now.”

The last was said almost in a whisper. He hadn’t heard the name in years. It had been titles and courtesies and epithets for so long, and of course the popular nickname which he’d adopted so enthusiastically, _Charming_.

“Huh. _Jim_ , is it?” the man asked, and his eyes actually seemed amuse when the prince huffed. “Jim” did indeed sound like a peasant’s name.

“Well, do you have name, Bones?”

“It’s Leonard. Leonard McCoy.”

“Hmm. You know, I think I prefer ‘Bones.’”

“They were right,” McCoy said dryly, “you are charming.”

“Really?”

“ _No._ ”

He couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped his throat, startling even him. How long since anyone had made him laugh?

The stew was hot and thick when he drank it and Leonard McCoy watched him while he drank, less openly hostile than before, but frankly curious. “So what were you doing in the village anyway?”

“I . . . I was in the woods,” the prince said slowly, setting the bowl aside. _The woods. Things change in the woods. Or you do. You don’t come out the same person you went in as._

“When the ground shook, I thought it was an earthquake. I did go to see if anyone needed help, at first, but – but I didn’t think – I didn’t know –”

“You didn’t know it was a giant,” McCoy finished. He sat back, arms crossed in front of his chest, studying Jim.

The prince felt hot shame crawl up in his neck. His face burned. “I didn’t – I did not slay the beast,” he admitted, hanging his head. “I was not the one. I left my bride in the woods. Or she left me. In any case I didn’t stay. I didn’t fight. I am not . . . much of a prince at all. As it turns out.”

When he finally risked a glance up, he was surprised to see the healer’s expression had softened. McCoy sighed, running a hand through his dark hair so that it stuck up messily. “Oh, kid, shit,” he said, shaking his head. “What a mess. You did help, alright? You saved that family.” He looked up at the ceiling. “I shouldn’t have given you such a hard time,” he muttered. 

“Don’t,” the prince held up a hand. “I don’t deserve your kindness. I’m not much of a prince. I’m not even a good man.”

“Bullshit,” McCoy said, so suddenly the prince jumped. “Those kids are back with their parents because of you. Sounds pretty damn heroic to me,” he sighed, almost growling, rubbing a hand over his face. “Look, we’re both tired, alright? Things’ll look better in the morning.”

_Would they, though?_ He’d lost his Cinderella. He’d almost lost his kingdom. It was difficult to see how anything would get better.

Prince James realized McCoy was still sitting there, staring at him. He was in the only bed in the small cottage. The prince shifted uncomfortably.

Suddenly, McCoy stood up, and dropped down on the crackling straw mattress next to him. The prince’s heart thudded in surprise, but the man had his arms beneath his head and he lay on his back, his eyes already firmly shut.

“Well, I ain’t sleeping on the floor, _your highness,”_ he stated. “Not with my back. You can either get down there, or learn to share.”

The prince smiled uneasily, but settled back down beside the other man. As a prince he’d never had to _share_ anything – even when it came to his brother, the boys always each got their own everything. His brother had a prancing white stallion, so he got a glorious black charger.

After a few moments, however, he realized it felt surprisingly nice to have someone else next to him – to hear the healer’s deep, rumbling breaths, and see the rise and fall of his chest and the faint warmth radiating from his body. The prince slowly relaxed and before long he had drifted back to sleep.


	2. It takes patience and fear and despair (to change)

“I’m not going back to the castle,” the prince said calmly, for the hundredth time. McCoy just wasn’t getting it.

“And why the hell not?” the healer demanded.

They were breaking their fast on bread and crumbly, dry cheese and having this argument. It was something of a novel experience for the prince, who didn’t often get to experience disagreement.

“I . . .”

“Got bored sitting in the lap of luxury?”

“Well, no-”

“Didn’t your father just throw a _three-day_ festival solely for your entertainment?”

“Yes, but that’s just –”

McCoy scowled down at him with that expression which, though he’d only known the man a day, had somehow become both familiar and dear. “Well, what could Prince Charming possibly have to complain about?”

“ _Himself._ ”

McCoy froze, mouth part way open. Finally, he looked – _really_ looked - at the prince. But his expression was tired. “Is this some kinda game to you? You know, you live with us mere mortals for a while and then swan off, back to tell the royals, to talk about how dirty and gross we are? And ya’ll have yourselves a nice laugh while you’re eating your roast boar, or whatever.”

“No!” the prince sat up straighter at that, horrified. “I told you last night - I didn’t slay the beast. And I did other things, besides . . . things I’m not proud of.”

He swallowed, remembering Cinderella’s face, luminous and soft in the dark of the wood. Large eyes that saw too much – saw him, and all his faults.

“I think . . . I think I can’t inherit the throne, the way I am now. I wouldn’t be a good king. Not the king this land deserves.”

McCoy was silent, letting him speak.

“I want to learn, though. How to be a better man. How to be _good_.”

“. . . I see,” the healer still looked skeptical. “And how do you plan on doing that, exactly?”

“Well . . .” the prince raised his eyes slowly, carefully letting the grin appear which had won over so many people in the past. “I need a teacher, clearly. And you’re the best man I’ve ever known, _so_ –”

“No. Oh, no,” said McCoy, leaping to his feet and holding his hands up as though he had to ward the prince off. “No, no, no! Absolutely not! I’m a healer, not a damn life coach! Besides, what do I know about being ‘good’ or whatever?”

The prince fixed him with a determined look. “Come on, Bones. You _know_ you’re a good person – scowling not withstanding – you worked all day yesterday, and the night before it, to take care of the people injured in the giant’s attack. You even took me in and you don’t even _like_ me!”

“But you’re the prince!” McCoy sputtered.

“But you don’t care, I can tell!” he jabbed him in the chest.

“Which makes me . . . good?” the healer looked genuinely confused, now.

The prince beamed at him, practically bouncing on the soles of his feet. “Yes!’

McCoy groaned, covering his face with his hands.

Prince James grabbed one of his hands, pulling it off his face and gripping it between them. “It’ll be grand,” he said.

He had to admit, he found it refreshing how McCoy remained uncharmed by him. He had never really had a friend before – sycophants, followers, servants, hangers-on, and admirers, yes, but never any real friends. He hoped McCoy would be one.

The healer looked back at him and sighed slowly. “Fine,” he grumbled. “Fine. But it’s going to be hard work and no one’s gonna treat you like a prince.”

“You don’t treat me like a prince now,” he pointed out.

“Yeah, well . . .” McCoy grumbled. “So long as you’re fine with it. You’ll just be Jim.”

“That’s all I want,” he said softly.

McCoy continued to study him like he didn’t quite believe it, but finally sighed and shrugged, gesturing for Jim to follow him into town.

 

  
*          *          *          *          *

 

Over the following weeks, Prince James the Charming – now simply known as “Jim” – learned how to repair a wall, mend a fence, milk a cow, shear a sheep, thatch a roof, bake a loaf of bread, churn butter, mend clothes, and a hundred other tasks he never thought he would need to know.

He helped the villagers repair the damage to their town, doing whatever was asked of him. It was hard work and he was so exhausted every night that he fell asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow – still the healer’s pillow because, after all, the town was short on beds, many people were now homeless until their new dwellings were built.

And, if he were honest, he didn’t want to leave the healer’s lodging. McCoy was gruff and grumbled a lot, but he had a good heart and Jim felt like he saw him for who he was, not for his titles or wealth or castles.

As he stuck around and put in the work, the other townsfolk began warming up to him as well. He often joined them for drinks at the local pub, and after a while no one acted any differently around him. It felt like a weight had been lifted he hadn’t even realized he’d been carrying. He discovered he liked behind just “Jim.”

He _liked_ having a drink and laugh with the guys, without anyone having to bother with bowing or stuttering over his presence. He felt connected to his realm in a way he hadn’t behind the high stone walls of the palace.

Sometimes, he even saw _her_ around the marketplace – _Cinderella_. She was lovely as ever and she smiled at him – the same pretty, but distant smile she used on everyone, and he knew enough to know that, even though they had said they would always love each other, they could never truly be friends.

She lived with the baker and they had adopted two children in addition to the baker’s own son.

The baker’s wife, he learned, had died in the wood. He tried not to think about it. He hadn’t loved her, of course, but he had liked her. He wouldn’t have wished harm on her for all the world. He didn’t like to think of her dead.

He didn’t know if the baker knew what they had done beneath those black, twisted trees, but he avoided the man just the same. Not an easy task in such a small village, but he managed it.

“So, I hear the princess shacked up with the baker,” McCoy stated one day, over lunch, with all the delicacy of the blacksmith’s anvil crashing down on his head.

Jim congratulated himself on not flinching. Too much.

“She was too good for me. I told you we parted ways in the woods.”

“Hmmm…” McCoy watched him for a moment, before shaking his head and plunking a bowl of stew down in front of him. McCoy was forever trying to feed him something.  “So are you doing all this to try and win her back?”

He shook his head. “No. We weren’t meant for each other. She didn’t really want to marry me, she just wanted an escape from her step-mother’s house. And I . . . I didn’t really want to marry her, either, as it turned out. I thought I did, but I was just in love with the chase.”

McCoy nodded, scratching his jaw thoughtfully.

“My parents always told me I would find ‘my’ princess and that we would be ‘meant to be’ and live ‘happily ever after’ but – ha –” he gave a short, despairing laugh and dropped his head.

“You can still have your happily ever after, Jim,” McCoy said quietly.

The prince shrugged. “I know things now . . .”

“About what?”

“ _Myself,_ ” he shook his head, mouth twisted up bitterly. “I don’t think people like me get ‘happily ever afters’, Bones. I messed up! I ruined everything. I even ruined her story.”

“Don’t say that.”

He looked up at McCoy, who suddenly seemed shy and looked away. “Just . . . you’re a good kid. You surprise me, Jim. You’re more than just a charming prince.”

That brought a smile to his face, though it faded quickly. He looked down at the faint scars on his hands. He couldn’t quite believe McCoy’s words, that he would ever be more than what he had been to Cinderella – good looking, good at dancing, vacuous, useless.

“Hey,” the mattress crumpled as McCoy sat next to him and put a hand on his shoulder.

Jim leaned into the touch and McCoy rubbed his back gently. Contact. Connection. All of his had been so furtive, secret trysts with servant girls, and scullery maids, the baker’s wife. No one who really knew him, until Cinderella (and she _left_.)

No other contact, really. The royal retainers were not _allowed_ to touch him, but even his parents and his brother didn’t hug or kiss each other. But why was he thinking of this now? McCoy was – was _not_ a princess.

And charming princes, well they ended up with princesses, everyone knew that.

But Jim looked down at his hands – they were developing calluses he’d never had, they were dirty, they had scars. They were no longer a prince’s hands, really. Was that who he still wanted to be?

_But then how can you know_

_Who you are till you know_

_What you want, which I don’t?_

 

He swallowed, enjoying the warmth of McCoy sitting next to him.

Of course, there might have been another reason his trysts never lasted long – things he’d buried, half-forgotten in the back of his mind, like the queen catching him in a passionate embrace with one of his guards. The other lad was promptly sent away, never to be seen or heard from again and, come to think of it, that may have been when the ‘no touching royalty’ rule came into effect…

But did two men really do things like that, together?

He thought of kissing the baker’s wife, beneath the shadows of the trees, her soft lips, yielding, as he studied Leonard McCoy from the corners of his eyes.

Now that the danger had passed, the healer had taken time to shave and his hair was neatly parted, but he still didn’t look soft, or yielding -- though he was gorgeous, unquestionably gorgeous, in his own right.

Jim found himself tracing the shape of the man’s jaw with his eyes. His lips.

He wanted . . .

_Things he’d never wanted before_ , at least consciously. Things he hadn’t thought to explore.

“You know, I am in your debt, for everything, Bones – ” he murmured, leaning forwards. Closing the space between them on the narrow bed.

And McCoy pulled back.

“So the town is mostly repaired,” he said, frowning. “I expect that means you’ll be leaving?”

Jim stared at him blankly, still half-leaning towards him.

“Going back to the palace,” the healer continued, his voice gruff. He stood up then, backing away, and despair flooded the pit of Jim’s stomach.

His hands suddenly felt cold.

“No, I . . . I told you, I want to learn to be a good person.”

McCoy froze. “You mean you’re not one yet?”

“I don’t . . . feel any different,” he admitted. A bitter thought was rising in him this whole time, watching Bones pull further and further away. “Do you _want_ me to leave?”

McCoy took a deep breath, then his shoulders sank. “No,” he admitted. He was still watching him, in that intense, careful way he had – a healer’s eye, the prince thought. But he was probably beyond healing, at this point.

“You’re trembling.” He sat back down on the edge of the mattress, and Jim froze as McCoy took both of his hands, rubbing them gently. His hands felt so hot they burned Jim’s, which were like ice –

“Not used to being rejected,” he muttered.

McCoy’s brow rose. “Is _that_ what that was?”

“I don’t –”

McCoy kissed him then – when he was flustered and _talking_ and not expecting it. The healer’s lips burned like magic – more exhilarating then chasing Cinderella through the woods on his horse. Better than all the festivals and feasts of his life combined. 

“Thought you were supposed to be smooth, Charming,” he said against his jaw and the prince coughed out a laugh, which turned to a moan as McCoy licked and sucked at his neck. Hands tugged at his hair.

It was the most wonderful feeling he’d ever experience – and then McCoy stopped.

Jim reached for him, but McCoy held himself back far enough so he could see his face, searching his eyes for – something. He must have agreed with whatever he saw there, because he pushed Jim back, onto the mattress. Hay snapped and flattened under him, as Bones’ hands ran down his chest, pushing up his shirt to expose his smooth stomach, then his chest.

He gasped.

“Ticklish?” McCoy asked, straddling his waist, looking down at him with a downright devilish glint in his eyes.

“No one – no one’s ever taken _my_ breath away, before,” said the prince.

McCoy grinned, leaning forwards to kiss him again. And again.

 

 

*          *          *          *          *

 

Jim stayed in the village, even after the repairs were done, and he helped the healer make his rounds and he learned how to mix potions poultices and salves, which herbs could be crushed for make a medicine good for the heart, or the lungs, how to stitch a cut or make a splint for broken bone.

At night, they slept in the narrow bed, more closely than before, McCoy’s arms thrown over him, or their legs tangled together. Sometimes the healer would press a sleepy kiss into his shoulder, or the back of his neck. Jim would feel the other man’s breath tickle his ear, or shift his hair, and he would smile against the moth-nibbled pillows.

And life was good. It was different, and good.

And Jim almost forgot that he was a bad person.

Until the day he remembered.

 

 

They were in the garden, beside the healer’s cottage, gathering greens, not medicinal plants, for once, but vegetables for their supper. As a royal he’d eaten much more meat, but he was getting used to potatoes and turnips, cabbages, carrots, broccoli. The healer insisted it was better for him anyway.

It was an overcast day, and McCoy was grumbling and grouching as they dug up potatoes in the garden, complaining about his back, like he was an old man (he wasn’t that old, no matter what he said to the contrary) and for some reason Jim thought it would be a good time to ask about the man’s past loves.

Which was how Jim learnt about Lady Jocelyn.

And why she and McCoy broke up.

The lady had a secret tryst in the woods with another lover. She was unfaithful. Insincere. Pretty. Disarming. Charming.

_Didn’t that sound familiar?_

Jim tried to keep the guilty look off his face as McCoy told his story, but he couldn’t. He felt like his blood was being slowly drained away.

This act of betrayal had killed McCoy’s love for his former wife, had split them apart and if Jim . . . if Jim made the same mistake . . . not that he was planning to, but he never really _planned_ to, it always just sort of happened, because of who he was . . . 

_Did that mean they were doomed?_

He had to sit down, falling beside the pumpkins like the wind had been knocked out of his lungs.

McCoy looked at him with concern. “You okay, Jim?”

He swallowed, forced himself to nod, all the while thinking that he couldn’t take it, if Leonard McCoy were to look at him one day, with real anger and regret. Would Jim just be another story then, to be told bitterly in this garden to another lover?

“I . . . Bones . . . I  . . .” found he couldn’t speak, as though all his past indiscretions were choking him.

He had to leave, before he started to weep.

“I have to go,” he said quickly, staggering to his feet and bolting from the garden, from the healer’s house, down the cobblestone street towards the village.

McCoy shouted after him, but he ignored it. For the moment. He couldn’t . . . He couldn’t stand to think that he would hurt him so deeply as this Lady Jocelyn had, that he would cause _Bones_ pain. But past experience suggested he would.

He could be good for a while (his time in the village proved that, at least) but he had no doubt that he would, eventually, slip back into old habits. Old routines. He would be himself again, and Prince Charming wasn’t who he wanted to –

Jim crashed into someone, who bounced off him with a ‘squeak!’ and he staggered, catching loaves of bread and buns that were falling around him.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, forgive me . . .” he looked down at her, as she stood, dusting off her apron. “ _Cinderella_?”

“Oh. If it isn’t my ‘faraway prince,’” she said, smiling tightly. She grabbed the bread back from him, started shoving it in a basket. “Not so ‘faraway’ though, anymore, are you?”

“I . . . I’m not trying to harass you,” he said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t even see you there . . .”

“No,” she glanced back at him, appraising with her dark eyes that saw everything. “You didn’t, did you? Wait . . . you’re upset.”

His shoulders sank. He raised a hand through his golden hair. He felt helpless and very unprincely. “I’m not a good man, my lady. You know that better than most. And I . . . I am afraid,” he admitted.

“Afraid? My prince . . .” Cinderella took his arm and led him to a nearby bench, where she sat beside him, the basket of bread balanced between them. “What’s wrong?”

“Since we parted ways, I’ve been trying to be a better man –”

“- I know, I’ve seen you, around the town, helping out,” she encouraged, smiling that gentle smile that could win even the birds to her side.

She patted his arm. “I think it’s great, even if it’s a bit strange, to see royalty with dirt on his face, down in the soot with the rest of us rabble. But it’s good. You’re doing . . . good here.”

He stared at the village square before them. Things were looking better. The rubble had been cleared away, new buildings built, new gardens laid. They were in sightlines of the baker’s shop, though, which rather unsettled him.

“But . . . what if it’s not enough? I met someone new.” He glanced at her. “I heard you did too.”

Cinderella blushed, pretending to be very busy rearranging the bread in her basket.

“But I’m scared,” he admitted. “That I’ll mess it up. That I’ll lose him, like I lost you. That I’ll fall back into old ways. That’ll I’ll stray.”

“Ah,” she leaned forwards, chin on her hand. Slowly, she glanced up at him. “Do you want to?”

“No, but – I didn’t want to when I was with you, either – don’t laugh, I mean it –”

“Well,” she leaned back, “It takes patience and hard work to change. To _really_ change. More than just changing your clothes –”

“I guess you would know.”

She elbowed him in the side, standing and gathering up her basket.

“I really love him,” he said, holding his side. “He’s passionate and considerate. As good as he is handsome. Really good, not just nice.”

Cinderella looked down at him thoughtfully. “Well, you certainly seem to be trying, so have trust in yourself, too. For what it’s worth I think you can do it, if you really want to.”

She bent down and kissed him quickly on the cheek before straightening and running back to the bakery.

Jim watched her go, still sitting on the bench, when someone cleared their throat loudly behind him. He turned his neck, then jumped, surprised to see McCoy standing there. The healer leaned over him, casting Jim in his shadow.

“How much of that did you hear?” he asked, feeling horrified and mortified.

“Well, I heard that you love me,” McCoy drawled, leaning down so their foreheads were touching.

Jim felt himself relax slightly, but he still felt miserable. “I meant to tell you, but I couldn’t bring myself to. I cheated on the princess, that’s why she left me. I . . . I don’t want to think I would do that to you, but –”

“But nothing,” McCoy huffed, planting a kiss on his forehead. “You’re changed. No matter what you say, or even what you believe, you’re not the same ‘Prince Charming’ who went into the woods the night of the giant attack.”

Jim stood, turning so he could wrap his arms around McCoy and kiss him properly.

Bones sighed, resting their foreheads together after. He ran his fingers through Jim’s hair, until they were both breathing easier, before reaching down to clasp his hand, threading their fingers together. “C’mon, darling. Let’s go home.”

Yes, _home_ – Jim sighed happily, leaning into McCoy. Home was the healer’s cottage, not the castle, not festivals or courtly feasts or the disputes of feudal lords, or –

“Brother!” a voice cried, cutting through the air.

Jim froze, as another blond prince on a white, rearing horse, stood in the centre of the village square.

“Brother, I’ve found you,” the prince shouted. “Finally!”


End file.
